


These Words Are All I Have (Just Not For Long)

by orphan_account



Series: I'll Take Your Heart Served Up Two Ways [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Awkward Pete, Grinding, Implied Sexual Content, Kind of Dom!Patrick I guess, Kind of a songfic maybe, M/M, Miss Missing You, death valley - Freeform, music video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course he should have known that Patrick would know his phone password. </p><p>Of course he should have known that Patrick would be curious as to what he had been so attentive to during the taxi ride. </p><p>Of course he should have known better than to leave his phone, his secrets, his thoughts, with an extremely curious Patrick.</p><p>Of course, of course, of course.</p><p>~~~~~</p><p>While filming the music video for Miss Missing You, Patrick starts acting a little... unusual.<br/>Pete doesn't mind that much (though he'd never admit it out loud).</p><p>That is, he doesn't mind until Patrick gets ahold of his unattended phone and uncovers his deepest (dirtiest) secrets.</p><p>Well, okay, maybe Pete doesn't really mind at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Words Are All I Have (Just Not For Long)

**Author's Note:**

> A Peterick oneshot, un-beta'ed. I wrote this on a whim over the course of a couple of nights, so I hope it's not too bad.
> 
> But hey, the ideas nag when they nag.  
> Unfortunately, my brain can only take so much nagging :P
> 
> And this escalates from, like, 0-95 in one sentence.
> 
> Title from Dance, Dance and Immortals, both by Fall Out Boy. I don't own anything.

Pete was watching the fake blood being drizzled onto the plants, unable to do anything else at the moment. 

They were on the set of the Miss Missing You video, which they had started filming about fifteen minutes ago. He was sweating like crazy, thanks to the hot sun and lack of shade. The crew had set up small tents with water and fans (and, of course, shade), but they were supposed to re-film the scene in a minute and he had to be there.

So Pete stood there in his leather jacket, flannel, and skinny jeans, the machete and briefcase lying in the dust at his feet (boot-clad, of course, because boots are obviously the best thing to wear in one-hundred degree heat), waiting impatiently for the fake blood to start dripping.

"Bored yet?"

Pete jumped slightly; he hadn't even heard Patrick come up.

"Yeah," he squeaked, a shiver dancing down his spine. Patrick's warm breath was tickling the back of his neck, and he was standing so _close_...

Pete pushed the thought away, straightening up and turning to face his best friend, looking into the unnatural yellow eyes. He knew they were contact lenses for the videos, but the fluorescent gold still creeped him out a bit.

"'S taking forever," he muttered. Patrick rolled his eyes. "Pete, it's been two minutes since--" He was interrupted by the request that they take their places to film again.

"Okay, well, you don't have to wait anymore..." Giving Pete a playful jab at the shoulder with the metal hook, Patrick smirked and went to the top of the hill, leaving Pete to stare after him, somewhat confused but with a warm, familiar tingling feeling.

<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>

Pete poked his head out of the car, scanning the car-filled desert.

The girl was pointing now, Patrick turning his head to glare in his direction, then sprinting for the car, slamming a hand down on the roof. That was Pete's cue; he leapt from the vehicle and raced away, jumping from hood to hood.

Patrick pursued him, snarling. Pete knew he was faking, was aware of the cameras trained on their every move, but he was legitimately kind of terrified.

Why did Patrick have to be so damn good at acting?

"Cut!" someone yelled, and Pete halted, nearly losing his balance on the hood of a grey Toyota. He dropped the weapon and briefcase and pinwheeled his arms to keep from crashing to the hard dust below.

It didn't exactly work.

"Aah!" he yelped as he pitched forward. Fuck, oh _fuck_ , he was going fall onto the Honda there!

Then there were arms around his middle, a hand at his back and a chest on his, cushioning his descent. The smack of sun-heated metal against his body never came.

His savior grunted as they hit the ground between the two cars. The hand on his back was gone, pushing him upright and off of the person who had (kind of) caught him.

Pete found himself staring down at Patrick, who was panting and brushing dust from the front of his t-shirt.

"You caught me?" he said in slight disbelief, blinking down at his best friend. Patrick winced and rubbed at the back of his neck with his good hand. "Well, there's not a Pete-shaped dent in this Honda here, so... I guess so," he laughed, grinning up at Pete.

It was then that he realized that Patrick was leaning against the car with Pete over him, bracing his hands on either side of Patrick. He felt the hot blush creeping over his cheeks and pulled back, poking at a pebble lodged in the dirt.

Patrick seemed to have noticed their position at around the same time, and he was also blushing.

 _Most adorably_ , Pete couldn't help but note.

"Uh, th-thanks, 'Trick," he stuttered, glancing around for his machete and briefcase. Patrick rose, holding out his non-hook hand to help Pete up. "Welcome," Patrick mumbled, apparently just as embarrassed.

There was an awkward silence, which, thankfully, was broken by someone calling for them to take their places.

<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>

He sprinted down the narrow hallway, holding the briefcase out in front of him, glancing over his shoulder as he ran.

Patrick barreled after him, smacking into the opposite wall as he rounded the corner. Pete tumbled into the open space, where the old lady with the gas mask was watching TV.

A chilling snarl ripped from Patrick's throat as he launched himself at Pete, who had flipped over on his back to intercept him. As planned, Patrick had his right hand at Pete's neck, his hooked hand raised to strike. He was straddling Pete, which Pete had been expecting (though actually having it happen was... well, he couldn't risk thinking about that at the moment, with Patrick on top of him and all).

What Pete _didn't_ anticipate was Patrick roughly shoving his hips down into his as they struggled.

Pete's eyes widened, and he momentarily lost his focus, allowing Patrick's hook to come crashing down towards him. He yelped and rolled out of the way just in time. The metal pierced the carpet where he had just been.

For some reason, the cameras were still rolling and no one had cut the scene.

Pete shook his head, trying to redirect his attention to what he was supposed to do next. Reaching for the handle of the briefcase, warmed by his grip, Pete scrambled to his feet, thoughts racing.

Half of his brain screamed at him to keep going with the scene, to remember his choreography, be professional.

The other half was clouded by the realization that, moments ago, Patrick was straddling Pete, hell, Patrick was fucking _grinding_ on Pete.

Of course, the latter half won, and Pete faltered.

"Cut!"

He sighed and trudged off to the water tent.

And then the bathroom, for... reasons.

<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>

When they reached their shared hotel room that night, they were exhausted and caked with sweat and dust from filming. Pete had scarcely spoken to Patrick since the scene with the gas room.

He let his friend have the shower first, choosing instead to settle on the couch with his headphones and thoughts after ten mind-numbing minutes of Food Network.

Of course, the first song to come on was Miss Missing You.

Pete growled in frustration and ripped out his earbuds. His phone hit the opposite wall with a loud, satisfying smack.

Unfortunately, the sound of the shower had stopped just a second before. Moments later, Patrick exited the bathroom, looking confused. His damp hair stuck up in some places and was plastered to his head in others, and a towel was wrapped around his waist.

Pete tried not to stare, quickly averting his glare to the place where his phone had connected with the wall.

"What was that?" Patrick asked, his blue gaze landing on Pete's phone, which lay face down on the carpet, earbuds still plugged in, music still playing. He picked it up, turning it over. His eyes widened, and he showed Pete the small crack in the screen. Pete shrugged; the crack was bound to happen soon, anyway.

Then Patrick pressed the home button, apparently trying to make sure the phone was still functional.

Of course, he saw the song that was currently playing. Pete hadn't bothered to pause it before chucking his phone away from himself.

Arching a pale eyebrow, Patrick looked up at Pete, a clear question on his face.

Pete flushed, muttering "Shuffle," and made a beeline for the bathroom, not bothering to take his phone back.

When he returned twenty minutes later, Patrick was frowning at Pete's phone.

Great. Fucking awesome.

Pretending not to notice, he changed into an old t-shirt and his boxers. The awkward silence remained impenetrable, until Patrick finally spoke, so softly that Pete just barely heard.

"Pete?"

His head snapped up, sending a few leftover water droplets flying.

"You've been really quiet," Patrick continued. "Ever since the gas-room scene. Are you okay? Did I do something?"

Pete stayed quiet, uncertain of how to respond.

Patrick was the reason for his silence. Specifically, Patrick's stupid insane hips that made Pete...

 _No. Stop. No dirty thoughts right now. Stop fucking thinking, Wentz. You're in just boxers. Can't risk this. Gotta stop thinking_.

But Pete had never been good at not thinking, so he turned away from Patrick, giving a noncommittal grunt and reaching into his backpack for his phone and headphones.

Then he remembered that Patrick was holding them.

Looking at his phone.

Frowning.

Pete was fucked. There was no other possible outcome to this situation.

"Uh..." he looked over to Patrick, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Can I..." He gestured vaguely to the phone. Patrick glanced up, pale brow furrowed. "Hold on."

Yup. Fucked.

Pete had no idea what to do, or what Patrick was looking at, so he did the first thing that he could think of.

Flying across the room in two bounding strides, Pete pounced on Patrick, who let go of the phone with a tiny, startled shriek.

The little device landed a few feet away, and Pete scrambled off of his best friend, lunging for the phone. His fingers skimmed the cool glass screen just as Patrick's sock-clad foot kicked it away.

Growling in frustration, Pete twisted, stretching out his arm and crawling the few inches he needed to go.

He had a sudden, absurd image, as he did so, of Harry and Voldemort crawling towards their weapons, preparing to finish off one or the other. It almost felt like that now.

Pete really needed to  _not_ binge-watch Harry Potter in his free time.

A hand at his ankle jarred him back to reality. Patrick was grabbing at his ankle, to no avail; Pete's fingers closed around the wires of his earbuds, and he yanked his phone back.

Freeing his leg from Patrick's grasp, Pete high-tailed it to the bathroom, where he slammed the door shut and locked it, sinking to the cold, refreshing tile. He was panting hard, a slight sheen of sweat glistening on his hairline.

He gathered his wits and looked down at his phone.

Shit just got real.

Patrick had been looking through his Notes app, at a file he kept buried beneath jumbles of thoughts turned lyrics.

Apparently, it hadn't been buried well enough.

His thoughts of Patrick lay sprawled over the small screen, the words jet-black against the pale yellow background. He had written down the latest ones today, on the taxi ride back to the hotel.

The memory of Patrick's rather flirtatious manner at the start of the day, of him catching Pete when he fell from the old Toyota, of him straddling Pete, rolling his hips, creating the rough, delicious friction that Pete so craved. All captured in as vivid detail as Pete could manage.

And memories from before, too. From before the hiatus: crawling into bed with Patrick to be sung to sleep, brushing feathery kisses over Patrick's neck onstage and feeling him shudder, the single time Pete had seen Patrick shirtless and the latter had avoided him for a week afterwards...

Things that weren't memories, too. Things he wanted Patrick to do to him, things he wanted to do to Patrick.

The list went on. Pete had meticulously, painstakingly hand-copied all the stories onto the app every time he got a new phone.

And Patrick had read it. All of it.

Pete groaned, setting down his phone and letting out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

This. Was. A. Fucking. Nightmare.

Of course he should have known that Patrick would know his phone password.

Of course he should have known that Patrick would be curious as to what he had been so attentive to during the taxi ride. 

Of course he should have known better than to leave his phone, his secrets, his thoughts, with an extremely curious Patrick.

Of course, of course, of course.

Pete was furious at himself. How could he have been so stupid? He should've learned by this time, after the dick pic incident, especially. No incriminating evidence on phones. No incriminating evidence, period. When it came to his friends, especially.

Well, he had nothing to lose at this point. Might as well go out there and face Patrick.

Pete rose with a heavy sigh, unlocking the door and stepping out into the room.

Patrick was sitting on the bed, patiently watching the bathroom door. He kept his silence, horribly deafening as it was, eyeing Pete with an expression Pete didn't know how to name.

Pete stood there awkwardly, unsure of whether to sit down next to Patrick or just get in the bed and try to sleep, of whether to hold the silence or talk to his best friend.

"Patrick," he finally blurted out, immediately dropping his gaze to the carpet and scuffling his feet. Damn his impulsiveness; he should've stayed quiet.

"Yes?"

Patrick's gaze was awfully intense; his words careful and harboring no emotion.

"I don't know," Pete groaned after a pause, flopping on the bed and burying his face in his hands. "I don't fucking know what I'm supposed to say." Patrick was quiet again for a moment. "Me neither."

Then there were calloused fingertips trailing over Pete's exposed knee, up his thigh.

"So let's not say anything."

Pete froze, his skin tingling in the wake of Patrick's touch.

Patrick took hold of his phone and scrolled around, before tapping a few times and turning up the volume.

Pete heard an all-too-familiar guitar riff tearing from the small speakers as Patrick set the phone on the nightstand.

He had turned on Death Valley.

All of a sudden, he was being pushed down into the sheets and Patrick was leaning over him, in a position similar to earlier, except for the fact that Patrick wasn't currently straddling him or holding his neck or raising a sharp metal hook above him.

_I wanna see your animal side; let it all out..._

Patrick craned his head down, brushing his lips against Pete's throat, feather-light. Pete gasped, and Patrick pulled away, smirking. "I knew you'd like that."

He crawled forward until he was straddling Pete, and began slowly rolling his hips. "I knew you'd like this, too."

Pete moaned, clenching his eyes shut. This was so hot. He could feel the blood rushing downward; he was quickly getting hard. Patrick seemed to feel it, too, and tugged Pete up into a sitting position.

_I want the guts and glory, baby..._

"What're you--" Pete began, interrupting himself with another soft moan as Patrick wrapped his legs around Pete's waist, sitting in his lap, and pushed his hips down into Pete's.

"I know what you want from me," Patrick whispered, his breath hot against the shell of Pete's ear. The older man whimpered in response.

_But we are alive, here in Death Valley..._

"I know what you like, what you want me to do to you, what you want to do to me. And I'll make that happen. Just say the word."

Pete could barely breathe. Fuck, this was actually happening, it wasn't another dream, Patrick was in his lap, telling Pete that they'd do whatever he wanted.

Patrick's soft, full lips met his, and Pete's world vanished, all his attention zeroing in on that moment that he had wanted for so long. Patrick tasted of tea and mint and something that was unquestionably _Patrick_. They slowly licked into each other's mouths, kissing fiercely until the song's chorus ended.

Then Patrick was pulling away, climbing off of Pete's lap, and the latter couldn't suppress the whine that emitted from his throat at the loss. Patrick began quietly singing along in a low, sexy tone that made Pete want to remake the song with new vocals.

"Oh, there you go," Patrick murmured, locking his intense blue gaze with Pete's and letting his fingers drift to the elastic waistband of the boxers.

"Undress to impress..." His gray boxers slowly slid down his hips, thighs, ankles. Gone.

Then Patrick decided to change up the lyrics a little. "I'll put the 'D' in dirt now, baby..."

They were definitely going to have to redo Death Valley. No questions asked.

Patrick made his way back up to Pete, slipping his hands under Pete's t-shirt as he went. "What do you want to do? Want me to blow you? Want to fuck?"

Pete was having trouble thinking at this point. He was hard as fuck by now, and all the options sounded equally as good.

Finally, he managed to rasp, "Make me scream. I don't care how. Do whatever you want to me, just make me scream for you, 'Trick."

Patrick's breath caught and his pupils blew out wider, leaving only a thin ring of ocean hues. The initial surprise faded quickly, however, and he growled, "You should be more careful what you wish for, Petey."

_We're gonna die, it's just a matter of time..._

<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>

They flopped back onto the pillows, gasping for air. Both were exhausted, but immensely happy. The music had long since stopped, but neither cared much.

Pete's body was still tingling with aftershocks as he wrapped his arm around Patrick.

"That was so hot," he breathed, and Patrick smiled, tracing aimless patterns over Pete's bare chest. They were both sticky and a little gross, so Patrick reluctantly rolled away, probably to find a washcloth. He came back a few moments later and slid back into bed, wiping away the sweat and come from their skin and tossing aside the damp cloth afterwards.

They laid on their backs, Patrick nestling his head in the crook of Pete's elbow, their fingers entwined and legs tangled.

"Well, I did say I would do what you wanted me to," Patrick laughed quietly. Pete grinned, blushing at the memory; his throat still felt a bit scratchy.

After a few minutes, Pete turned his gaze down to Patrick. "So, um..." he trailed off, then regained his courage. "Does this mean we're a thing now?"

Patrick closed his ocean eyes and gently squeezed Pete's hand.

"We'll be whatever you want to be, Petey," he said softly.

"Patrick?"

"Mm?"

"Will you be my boyfriend?" Pete cringed inwardly at how awkward he sounded, but Patrick's eyes sparkled and he planted a gentle kiss on Pete's cheek.

"Hell yeah."

**Author's Note:**

> I got lazy over the sex bit, so I'll leave that up to your imaginations... *lenny face*
> 
> ...DUN-DUN-(josh)DUN
> 
> Also, does anyone have Peterick conspiracy theories? Because those are just really fun.


End file.
